


Young

by ThriteenCrows



Category: Original Work
Genre: wont be second one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 01:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13514022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThriteenCrows/pseuds/ThriteenCrows
Summary: For my Best Buddy





	Young

**Author's Note:**

> For my Best Buddy

**Chapter One** – What we become.

Darkness covered the room much like the thick wool carpet that encased the floor like crusty yellow moss. Rouge flashes from passing car lights illuminated the room for seconds, showing the hunched form of Samson Gath. The young man shivered and hiccupped, hiding his face in darkly stained hands. Quiet sobs vibrated out of the distressed man, a constant stream of soft, “No’s” echoed around him.

  
Samson drawled in a ragged breath, the taste of the room fills his senses and his stomach. The overly sweet and rotten taste was all over Samson; sticky and thick. Samson tried to suck in another breath but the stench clogged his mouth and nose. Samson felt his body stutter and clenched inward. A feeling of pins and needles erupted throughout his limbs; growing numbness took of his haggard form. What little he had in his stomach was quickly on the motel’s flowery wallpaper.

The mess around him; Samson couldn’t see details, but he already knew what was to be seen. Dark flecks of reds; a collage of deep shades stuck around Samson in the room. Splashes and spatter. As if the moment of horror was forever embodied by the stains and defiled space. This was his **art**. The word was bitter in his mouth but still, the high shrilled voice echoed in his pounding head.

  
_That’s what it was, right?_

  
Silence engulfed Samson as his sobs turned to shallow breaths and all his thoughts felt like dark sludge in his head. He sat there, on numb legs shaking holding himself in comfort.

The pale light of pre-morning looked like watered down piss on the walls. Samson looked up at the white and black ceiling; the black speckles of mould, the cracked white that looked like a thin river cutting through the thick space of white in a sea of piss.

  
Looking at what was around him properly, with more focus, he looked more closely to his surroundings; the sludge, the corpses that lay ripped apart and the guns that were scattered like toys, not the dangerous contraptions that they were.  
Samson made his way to the boxed bathroom. The plaster was flaking and the tiles were nonexistent, long forgotten along with any thought of housekeeping.

Samson looked into the A4 mirror that rested ageist the wall. He looked at the monster that reflected out of it. Dark curly hair clumped together; that looked like hooked legs of a tarantula covered his head. The dark locks clung to his strong brows and over bright blue eyes. Those eyes were the only thing he was ever truly proud of, through everything in his life. Those sunflower blue eyes with silver flecks floating through the darken rims. They were constant, they were him. Samson smiles at himself, to see what it looks like now.

  
No fangs show, no blacken eyes nor any actual sign of a monster. He sees himself still, the same smile he's always had. Same crinkles around his eyes, same teeth show through his lips. Only blackened blood stains his cheeks. The darken circles under his eyes are more profound, only lack of sleep didn’t do that. Looking closer at his skin it didn’t look the same. Not the same sun-kissed colour. He looked so pale. His browner hue was gone. His tan was now forgotten along with any hope all this wasn’t real.

Samson ran his fingers through his hair, his hand stopped at the knot of dried blood and his hair.

The air in the bathroom felt cleaner, but blood and sweat still clung to him. Samson hung his head, no longer willing to look at himself. Turning from the mirror, Samson stepped into the shower. Twisting the hot and then the cold, he let the uneven water temperature fall on his fully clothed body. Samson stood under the spray, feeling the water flow beneath his clothing, beneath the sticky layers of blood. Turning off the cold he felt something different than the constant dread of his existence.  
Samson couldn’t think to move his arms nor his hand to help clean him.

He stood under the water till all he felt was cold water spraying on him and the uneasy glow of morning.

Samson knew already this was a horror-filled life from this day forth but his heart still jumped at the sound of knocking on the door. He knew what being terrified felt like and in this moment he didn’t even think he was even scared...

  
“This is the police! Open up.”

  
...Petrified. That’s what he was. Petrified, alone and dead.

 

No, he wasn’t dead, but much worse.

 

Undead...


End file.
